Nice Neat Boxes
by Nyx Myst
Summary: Seventh-year Harry starts receiving random secret admirer notes, but from whom? *grins* A/N: I wrote it therefore it must be SLASH. Oh, and Harry is 17 for those who live where that's illegal.


**Title:** Nice, Neat Boxes

**Rating:** M

**Pairing:** HP/???

**Summary:** Seventh-year Harry receives random 'stalker notes', but from whom? *grins*

**Notes:** I wrote it therefore it must be slash.

**Disclaimer:** Since all of the people who own a piece of Harry Potter and all the related characters are very, very rich and I am very, very poor, that means I own nothing. Pity me and don't sue.

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Nice, Neat Boxes

Harry expects lots of things in life. He expects his Uncle Vernon to yell and his Aunt Petunia to turn her nose up at him. He expects Dudley to try (unsuccessfully) to intimidate him. He expects Ron and Hermione to always accept him for who he is and be his friend anyway. He expects Draco Malfoy not to be. He expects Dumbledore to hides things from him, McGonagall and Mrs. Weasley to mother hen him, Hagrid to scare him with some new creature, Trelawney and Binns to bore him, and Snape to give him detention at least once per week.

And somewhere down the road he expects to fight Voldemort to the death.

Whatever the expectation he can file it into one of his nice, neat boxes labeled 'Good' and 'Bad'. Ron and Hermione are 'Good'. Voldemort is 'Bad'. Nice and neat and ready to be dealt with when he sees fit to deal with them. What Harry doesn't like is anything that doesn't fit into his nice, neat boxes. There are just some things that he shouldn't ever have to deal with.

For example…

He'll never need a Muggle driver's license. What does he need a driver's license for when he can portkey, apparate (no, not legally, but that's just a minor technicality), floo, or fly? He'll never need a pocketful of keys. That's what wards were created for. The only key he'll ever need is the one for his Gringott's vault. He'll never need a telephone since Hedgwig would peck his eyes out if he even thought of using one. He has no use for video or computer games. Even the best programmers couldn't dream of creating anything remotely as dangerous / thrilling / suspenseful / intense as his life is, thank you very much. No, he doesn't need anything that doesn't fit into one of his boxes.

_Harry,_

_What you would say were I to tell you that I want you?_

It's one slip of parchment in an unmarked envelope written in unrecognizable handwriting delivered by a school owl over breakfast three weeks into the school year.

Bloody hell.

* * *

He tries not to think about the note. He has classes and N.E.W.T.s to focus on. Oh, and then there's always that evil, half-blood prick trying to kill him to consider. He has no time to think on silly notes from anonymous sources. He'll toss the note after class and be done with it. It's been a week and he hasn't received another. Perhaps him not reacting to it has served to dispel further ones. He thinks that's a good thing since it was probably all some stupid joke anyway, but the note calls to him from his pocket. It screams at him that it's not some silly prank by Malfoy or the like. He's torn over what to think and torn doesn't fit into his nice, neat boxes.

He considers that maybe it's not a prank, that somewhere in the school is someone watching him, wanting him from afar. Or close by. He has no way of knowing at this point. He's not sure he wants to know. Uncertainty may not fit into one of his boxes, but it has some appeal. That's only if the note is true, though, and the problem is that it very well might not be. That's not a comforting thought. It's actually quite cruel considering his upbringing is now common knowledge. Everyone knows his Muggle relatives despised him. Everyone knows he grew up without his parents. Anyone intelligent enough to put one and one together and come up with two most likely realizes that being wanted is something he craves. Being wanted would go in his 'Good' box. He decides to keep the note because of it.

He's in the dorm when another school owl makes its way through the open window. It drops an envelope on his bed and flies off without waiting for a reply. He didn't think it would wait.

_No, that was not a joke. I want you._

It's almost eerie that the note says what it does. No, not eerie, familiar. This person knows him. They knew what his reaction would be to the first, and while not swift with another note, it was delivered with impeccable timing. Delivered just when his doubts of validity reached their peak. So, it's not a joke. They've convinced him of that, but there are other things to consider. The person knows him, but how close is he or she to him? Do they know him as Harry or Harry Potter or The-Boy-Who-Lived? If the former is the case, then it's worth filing the second note with the first. If it is either of the latter two then all three will be filed elsewhere... namely the trash bin. He has little patience for hero worship.

A new owl flies through the window and circles his bed. He watches it summoning his bag of owl treats. That's enough to get the bird to drop the envelope in its claws. The bird swoops down and grabs the treats. He wonders absently if it'll share them with the first. That ceases when he pulls out the next strip of parchment.

_You, not The-Boy-Who-Lived. Give me more credit than that. I suppose that's difficult since you don't know who I am. You will._

Not a joke.

Not want of The-Boy-Who-Lived.

He files them in the 'Good' box and returns to his studies. He has a Charms exam in the morning.

* * *

He's settled into the routine of being back in school by the time Halloween rolls around. He does his homework because he needs to more than because Hermione harps on him if he doesn't. It won't be long before he leaves Hogwarts and he'll need a job when he does. He wants one where his employment is based on his knowledge and usefulness, not his name. He has ideas of what he'd like to do, but he's not quite settled on one just yet. To keep all the options open means more than a few N.E.W.T.s so he studies without prompting.

As for Voldemort, well, he still has to do a bit of sneaking around to get the latest information on that front. He thinks that since he's legally an adult and he's the one that has to do away with the big nasty dark wizard that that shouldn't be the case anymore, but Dumbledore still looks at him and sees little Harry that needs protecting most of the time. He's more thankful for his father's invisibility cloak everyday because of it.

Between completing class/homework and monitoring Voldemort , he has little room left in his brain to focus on other things. That's what he blames when he doesn't notice for five days that the official announcement about the Halloween Ball has gone up on the Gryffindor message board. He hates balls. Balls mean dating and he's horrible at it. After the Cho Chang Catastrophe were the Mandy Brocklehurst Mishap and then his personal favorite, the Justin Finch-Fletchley Fiasco. He stopped dating and filed the subject of dating in his 'Bad' box after that. While having someone want to be with him was wonderful and sex was definitely the complete opposite of the Cruciatus, watching your boy/girlfriend look at you terrified if you argued was a bigger turn off than Moaning Myrtle popping up in the bathtub with you. Still, that didn't solve his problem of needing a date if he was going to go. Being Harry Potter meant he was expected to.

The screech of another school owl made him look around the common room wondering who was receiving a post so late in the day. Finding the room practically empty aside from a few second-years playing Exploding Snaps clued him in rather quickly. He held his arm out to the circling owl and it landed on his forearm. Letter in hand and the owl off again, he glanced at the youngsters in the room. Seeing them watching him with curious smiles he raised an eyebrow at them. That effectively turned them back to their game. Sometimes his name and reputation were a blessing. He left the room anyway and looked for a quiet corner. He found it near the infirmary.

_Have I peeked your interest? You have most assuredly peeked mine._

He reads the line twice before tucking it in his pocket and heading downstairs to the Great Hall. So his secret admirer is curious about him. While the thought is flattering, he doesn't take much stock in it. How much interest can they really have when they haven't contacted him in nearly a month? Then there's the issue of him having no damned idea who the person is because they won't tell him. No, they can't be that interested, can't want him that much when he's only a passing thought that occurs to them now and then.

Walking into the Great Hall he looks around and sees Noah Quilmer at the Ravenclaw table with a few friends. The sixth-year boy is attractive and a decent Quidditch chaser and can keep a good conversation flowing. Noah's also had a crush on him since the end of last year. When Mandy smiles at him, but bumps Noah's arm and points at him, Harry smiles at the boy. The boy smiles back and Harry heads over because dating is horrible, but at least this admirer isn't only on parchment.

* * *

Lord Tom Marvolo Riddle Voldemort is the absolute scum of the Earth for ruining his sex life he decides three weeks after Halloween. The evil, has-to-be-a-virgin-or-he-wouldn't-be-so-cranky bastard waited until Halloween night to come out of hiding. Why that night? Harry is sure it was solely for the purpose of spoiling his chances at some very deep kissing and grinding at the least and a pleasantly sore bum at most. Not getting either is firmly in the 'Bad' box.

He got a whole twenty-two minutes of talking and dancing along with one absolutely delightful kiss with Noah at that ball before Snape told him to say goodnight and follow him. He started to protest that he hadn't done anything that deserved being tossed from the ball. One fleeting flicker of the true reason he had to leave in Snape's eyes and he feathered a kiss across Noah's lips promising to make it up to him.

One night of fighting, one week in the infirmary, a week and a half catching up on schoolwork missed from said time fighting and recovering, and Noah has moved on. To Justin Finch-Fletchley. He really hates The Dark Lord. Really.

He's in the common room with Ron and Hermione when an owl flies in. This definitely is not something to file in the 'Good' box because he hasn't told Ron and Hermione about his admirer. He still hasn't completely forgiven Hermione for her snitching to McGonagall about his Firebolt. He can already hear her telling him that a few notes from a secret admirer is one thing, but four is borderline stalking. He doesn't want to hear it so he decides to make the excuse of needing a book from upstairs and heads up there. The owl follows him.

_I think of you often. Tell me, how do you mask such a skilled mind behind a smile still so innocent in appearance?_

He feeds the owl a treat and sends it on its way. Hedgwig gets one just so she'll stop squawking at the intruder. Stoking his snowy white, he reads the note and thinks about it. He never really has before, but now that he is, he can see why that would be a question of his admirer. He's been through so much over the course of his life that he's not sure he has any innocence left. Over the last few years he's had to hone his mind and powers more than any other student in the school. He still has trouble transfiguring a toad into a tablecloth, but he can counter a Bone-Breaking Curse in his sleep. He can cast a damned good one as well. He's pretty sure he wasn't the only one in need of medical attention after his last meeting with Lord Red Eyes.

He goes through the list of people who would know about his skilled mind. Even with Ron's tendency to pass on bits of his battle stories the list of those who know the true extent of his knowledge isn't that long. It's the first real clue he has to his admirer's identity. He'd think on that more, but Hermione is yelling for him from the bottom of the stairs. It's the notes' fault she has to.

* * *

He's alone on the Astronomy Tower roof and he's thankful for it. Hermione is harping on him about his owls because he won't tell her who they're from. When he yelled at her that it was none of her business, she stomped off. Ron followed her so he's pretty sure Ron is angry with him too. He's just as sure that it won't be long before McGonagall asks him about his owls. He'll tell her whatever he needs to in order to get her to leave him alone too. It's his secret admirer, and if he wants to keep it secret-well-that's his business.

The upsurge of wind around him makes him pull his cloak tighter around him and whisper a warming charm. He's not ready to go inside just yet. Inside are people he doesn't want to talk to and that list doesn't just include Ron and Hermione. Noah is old news, but Terry Boot has decided he should be next in line for his interest. The problem is that he isn't interested in Terry. He smiles and talks with the boy, and he wouldn't turn down meaningless sex with him, but he's not interested beyond that. Terry would want more than he can offer, though, so it's best he doesn't.

Then there's Dumbledore's watchful eye on him again. Something is going on and the headmaster is once again keeping the details from him. He'll find out soon enough. There's an Order meeting well after curfew tonight. He'll be there whether the old man likes it or not. It's his arse on the line more than anyone else in the war with Voldemort. He refuses to fall into the trap of not being well informed again. He hasn't forgiven Dumbledore for that yet either, not with the price he paid for the man keeping him ignorant.

He sees the envelope floating higher in the air and quickly scans the area for the source. It's too dark to see anything, so he gives up and holds his hand out summoning the folded parchment to him. It lands in his hand soundlessly and he opens it before pulling out the strip of paper and lighting the tip of his wand.

_I know you are not innocent, Harry. No one so passionate in both their love and hate of things ever is. I wonder if anyone has ever fully unleashed the fire in you, allowed you to consume him or her entirely. I would willingly submit to that burn._

No, he's not innocent by any definition of the word. Nor is the note or it's author. It's all there between the lines and has been since the start, exactly what the writer wants of him. He knew this, of course. It's the only reason he hasn't torched the notes before now. This person knows him and wants him and it isn't a passing fancy. Yes, the notes are few and far between, but the interest is sincere. Sincere and growing. As are his suspicions as to whom his secret admirer is. The list of suspects is dwindling. A few more notes and he's sure he'll know.

He smiles and heads inside tucking the note in his pocket.

* * *

Tag really is a game for two. It's for that reason that he's spending a good deal of the Christmas holiday without his robes. He walks around in jeans that sag low on his hips and a fitted t-shirt that doesn't quite meet the top of that sag. There's never more than a thin line of skin that shows when he twists or turns or bends, but it's enough to see. He knows what sort of picture that will give anyone interested enough to look. With more than half the school's occupants remaining for the holiday due in large part to fear of the frequent activity of Voldemort and friends, he's sure his crush has gotten a fair glimpse of exactly what else he conceals behind an innocent smile.

He's not surprised when he returns from his nightly shower after the Christmas Feast and there's another envelope on his pillow. Still rubbing the towel over his damp hair, Ron gives him a questioning look when he picks it up. He ignores it and sits down on the edge muttering a spell to open it. His hair is still practically dripping.

He stops the ruffling of his dark locks and unfolds the paper tucked inside. This is new. Normally it's one small strip of parchment not even as wide as his finger from first knuckle to tip. This one is as wide as his entire finger. It looks like he's won this round of cat and mouse.

He changes that opinion when he reads the first line. Reading the first makes the second appear. Reading the second shows the third. It's when the fourth shows the fifth that he groans and slides under his blankets pulling the curtains around his bed closed. The Silencing Charm and Do Not Disturb ward are enacted seconds later.

_I want you, Harry. The want is boiling inside me. _

_To feel your skin on mine… _

_To kiss you…_

_To taste you…_

_To be the one you release inside…_

He can't stop himself anymore. He's refrained from letting the notes and their source have any real effect on him, but this last one breaks his control. He's only seventeen after all. He can't be expected not to react to such a suggestion. Even if that suggestion is in writing.

He shoves his hand down his pajama bottoms, his wrist pushing down the fabric almost simultaneously with the movement. His hand curls around his cock and he bites his bottom lip. He starts with slow stokes, thoughts of his secret lover in bed doing the same. The fantasy becomes more vivid when he closes his eyes and imagines there's a spell that will share what he's experiencing with the subject of his fantasy no matter the distance between them. He can almost feel the slow glide of his hot, bare skin against his admirer's, the taste of the admirer's tongue through greedy, needy kisses, and feel throat muscles contracting around his cock as he's slide deep inside. Oh, sweet Merlin, when he imagines other muscles quivering around him with hard, purposeful thrusts it's too much for him. None around him hear his cry of release. They don't feel hot, stick spunk on his stomach. They don't take in the scent of spent passion.

But as he mutters a cleaning spell and tucks the note under his pillow, he imagines that its author did. He'll file the note in it's own private box when he wakes up.

* * *

He pulls out his History of Magic book prepared for another lesson he could care less about. He's too tired to concern himself with the Giant War of 1872. He has his own wars to contend with.

The first, of course, is firmly settled around Trelawney's occasional forays into true seeing. The fights are more often now that Christmas has passed and the world is nearly a month into the new year. Snape and Remus are agreed that Voldemort is trying to take him out before he graduates school and has all the time in the world to focus on doing the same to the evil git. Dumbledore agrees with that assessment, but is still reluctant to share all information with him. That doesn't matter since Remus and Snape feed him what's kept from him on the sly. Sometimes it takes a while for him to understand what they are trying not to tell him, but he always does. None of it goes in the 'Good' box.

Then there's N.E.W.T.s to contend with. He's passing his classes, but passing his classes is a far cry from passing the exams. There's a reason they're named what they are. He's not worried; that emotion is centered on the previously mentioned piece of shit, but he's not exactly unconcerned either. The last thing he wants is to knock off the heir of Slytherin and have no direction for the rest of his life. He plans on having one when it's all said and done, a life where he isn't pulled from his dreams to face his nightmare. And it's his dreams that are his third point of contention.

He isn't sure how it happens, but he has a hunch that his note writer _does_ feel what he does when he's alone in bed at night. The seventh note has a permanent spot under his pillow now, the parchment spelled so the writing is only visible to him and it returns to it's place should an overenthusiastic house elf toss it during dorm cleaning. At first he left it there for a few days. It was only a move for his pride; his ego bruised over a simple note - alright, not so simple a note - causing him to wank off into a sated sleep. The note that followed those few days made him pull it from it's hiding spot and spell the paper to within an inch of fraying.

_Do thoughts of me make you moan and mess yourself alone in bed at night? Thoughts of you do so to me… with a bit of self-assistance, of course._

He wants to know who his admirer is. Discovering the author's identity is becoming almost as important to him as fulfilling the prophecy in his favor. He wants physical contact, is craving it like a starved man. The bloke, and he's sure it is now, sent him another note this morning. It was on his pillow under his cheek when he woke up. It almost made him miss breakfast.

_I see the want of me now. Is it the same constant ache you stir in me? Does it make you hard at inopportune moments?_

Yes, as a matter of fact it does and his imagination only goes so far. He's taken to watching every male still on his mental list for even the smallest sign that they are watching him in return. Bloody hell, what did Binns just say? He has no clue.

* * *

Lord Twisted Prick really doesn't want to piss him off. Even Ron has said so, not with the sour mood he's been sporting as of late. He knows his temper is short and his concentration the worst it's been all year and with good reason. Voldemort is getting bolder, N.E.W.T.s are getting closer, and his wrist is sore from more than just hours of extra training with Remus, Snape, and anyone else Dumbledore pairs him against. Because now the headmaster is finally convinced it's a good idea for him to train more. Thanks for nothing, Albus.

The tension thickens in the potions classroom the moment he steps into it. Even Malfoy and his cronies don't speak on his mood anymore. The week of detention for knocking the blonde and his two poor excuses for bodyguards halfway across the north lawn was well worth it in his opinion. Oh, he still gets the dirty looks, but he just smiles back in response. Someone told him he has an innocent smile and a skilled mind so he uses both to his advantage.

Snape, being the über prat that he is, forgoes the physical potions making for a twenty-inch essay. That makes his day because his wrist is close to disposing of his hand as it is. With a little more work it just might do so. He seethes his way through the essay and earns himself another night of detention for taking Snape's bait about his handwriting. The detention alone isn't enough to worsen his mood, but when the greasy git takes twenty points Gryffindor for his cheek, his rotten mood reaches its pinnacle. Ron and Hermione practically yank him out of the room after class just to keep Gryffindor from losing anymore.

He makes his way to the Owlery just because no one will look for him there. It's while he's seated on the floor in a corner stroking Hedgwig that another owl hops over to him with its wings outstretched. He sighs at the envelope on the bird's leg and takes it because he just can't stop himself anymore. As much as the notes are 'Good' and 'Bad' material, he wants them.

_I can cure you of your new burden, Harry. You need only admit I am right, that you want me as much as I want you._

He snorts and leans back against the wall stretching his legs out. Just how in the bloody hell is he supposed to admit anything to someone he doesn't even know. Or rather that he knows, but won't come out into the open to face him. Is he supposed to start asking the few still on his list of suspects if they fancy him? Or perhaps he's supposed to ask Ron and Hermione to help him out with this little bit of adventure? There's no chance in hell of that. This is between him and his enigma and it's staying that way. He's come this far without revealing anything and he'll keep it that way.

Even if his hand falls off.

* * *

_No, you would never sacrifice your pride for another, would you? Sacrifice yourself, yes, but never your pride. And that is the reason I have not revealed myself to you._

The rage in him doubles each time he repeats the words silently in his head. It's not a matter of pride that has kept him from admitting to having an admirer. It's not, it's that he doesn't _know_ who his admirer is. Not conclusively anyway and he won't approach until he is sure. Obviously the other party won't do that for him. It infuriates him because he isn't the one that asked for any of this. This… thing with them wasn't his idea. He didn't start it so he holds none of the cards. And he's damned tired of the game.

He skives off Divination in favor of perusing the library. The last thing he needs is to predict his horrible demise yet again just for a passing grade. Not when there's a chance he might be a better seer than Trelawney is. Hermione protests him doing it on her way to Arithmancy and Ron pouts that he'll have to sit the class without him, but he needs time to cool off. His friends think so too and leave him to it.

The pass to the Restricted Section is definitely one thing he never leaves his dorm without. He asked Snape for it to assist him in his studies, but of course the man said no. Dumbledore was easier to convince once the headmaster finally accepted that he really did need it. He had to promise his other studies wouldn't suffer in favor of those contained in restricted tomes, but he still thinks it was a good deal each time Pince frowns while letting him inside.

He should be brushing up on his defense counters, but he's tired of playing defense all the time. It's time he took the offensive position. The rest of the school year can't continue as it has or he'll go stark-raving mad.

He's barely there an hour before Dumbledore, Snape, Moody, and Remus retrieve him. The collective looks of worry on their faces tell him more than words could.

Today is either going to be filed in the 'Good' box or filed nowhere.

* * *

The interview begins with the reporter telling him he passed his N.E.W.T.s, three of them with O's. He honestly didn't know. If he thought his life would settle once the Dark Dead-For-Good Lord was gone he was sadly mistaken. He still has classes to contend with in the midst of every reporter wanting twenty minutes of his time to rehash everything he's said in the last dozen interviews. Then there are the formal events he's quickly growing to loath. The first few were exciting. It was wonderful to finally see all the hard work the Order did in ending Voldemort's reign of terror rewarded. Now they're tedious at best.

She asks him about his relationship with each member of the Order. There's nothing new there. He rambles on about his respect for Dumbledore even if the man still treats him like a child. Just the night before he ordered Harry to bed a half-hour before curfew. He admits to Remus being a father figure to him and lavishes praise on the werewolf for all that he learned from the man. He talks about Snape, how the potions master risked his life spying for Dumbledore and training him. He even means it when he says he's grateful the man is such an arse to him. He credits that as motivation to learn what he needed to. It's nothing he hasn't said before, but her Quick-Quill still takes the quotes.

He's exhausted by the time he reaches the Great Hall for dinner. It's while he's talking to Ron, Dean, and Seamus that the familiar hoot of an owl makes him look up. The envelope isn't even tied to the bird's leg this time, just clutched in its claws. Ron, Seamus, and Dean just look from the owl to him. So do Hermione, Ginny, and several others. He stands up snagging a biscuit and excuses himself. The owl flies passed him on his way out of the open doors.

He takes a seat on the moving staircase and the bird lands beside him. He pets it with one hand offering it the biscuit with his other. The bird doesn't fly off this time having been thoroughly bribed not to. It does at least hop over so he can snag the envelope from under its feet. He looks up the stairs to make sure no one is around before pulling off the tie around the scroll and unrolling it.

_I have come to realize that I will never have you. That being the case, I cannot allow you to know who I am. Forgive my earlier lie of assuring you I would, but I cannot. Do not be angry, Harry. It is better this way. You want me now, but would you still if you knew my name? No, you would not. It is better this ends now, so I am ending it. Goodbye._

He rolls up the final piece of what he now knows is a single sheet of parchment cut into strips inside the envelope and just holds it. He's not surprised that the letter was left unsigned. It doesn't need to be anyway. He knows for sure now who the author is.

He still hasn't decided whether that's 'Good' or 'Bad'.

* * *

It takes him three days and an entire roll of Spell-O-Tape, and while he's still unsure of which box to put the letter in, it's now in one piece. He knows it by heart he's read it so many times. He's decided the beginning is tricky. It doesn't really fit in either box. The middle is 'Good'. He likes being wanted in that way. The only snag is whether or not he likes being wanted in that way by the letter's author. He thinks he just might. The end, however, is decidedly 'Bad'. 'Bad' and in no way fair. While the author has had his say, he hasn't. He has a lot he wants to, but he refuses to do it in a letter. Well, at least not solely in a letter. If he's not going to let it go then he'll give his response in person first.

Let him say that he won't sacrifice his pride then.

With the letter in his pocket he heads downstairs. In the Entrance Hall, he sees Justin and asks if the boy will walk with him down the Hufflepuff stairs. The boy looks at him confused, but agrees nonetheless. He stops at the entrance to the Hufflepuff common room and explains that he needed an excuse to walk down the stairs. Justin grins back at him because Justin knows why he sneaks down the hallways under the castle: seclusion and privacy. Justin should since he benefited from it just as much as he did. With a wish of good luck and a grin, Justin slips inside the Hufflepuff common room.

He continues on his way pulling the Marauder's Map from his pocket. He's not surprised when he sees a name on an intercept course with him. He grins pulling off his school robe and lets it fall to the floor. His father's cloak, cleverly bound beneath it comes off, then back on over his school robe. Map in hand, he slips into a storage chamber and waits. It's not long before the door swings open and closed again.

"I know you are in here, Potter. Your blasted father and his friends were not the only ones who could enchant a map." From his spot on an old chair, he pulls the invisibility cloak off his head and shoulders and lets it fall to the floor behind the chair. Snape smirks at him like he's been named 'Potions Master of the Year' by _Potions Monthly_. "Well, well, I wonder what the headmaster will say when he discovers his Golden Boy is still sneaking about the castle."

"I just wanted to be alone, sir," he says quietly.

"Then I suggest you find another place to do so, namely after your detentions are completed," Snape retorts, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Right. Because there are so many places I can go without anyone finding me," he snorts.

"That is not my problem, Potter. You, however, are for another few weeks." Harry ignores him rolling his eyes. "Five points from Gryffindor, ten if you do not leave this room in the next fifteen seconds."

"Gryffindor has won the house cup no matter how many points you take. Professor Dumbledore will make sure of it," Harry replies. "Yes, yes, detention every night until I'm gone," he continues on quickly before the man can interrupt him again. "Now that we have that settled would you mind leaving me alone? I'm trying to think."

"A bit late to choose to think now, is it not?"

"It's never too late unless you give up," Harry says, and pulls the letter from his pocket. He doesn't see the older man tense, but he knows the man did. "Alright, I'm leaving. I need to speak with Professor Dumbledore anyway. I've been… nevermind," he says, folds up the letter, and tucks it back in his pocket.

"You've been what, Potter?"

"Right. As if I'd ever admit anything to you," he snorts again, and starts for the door. Snape grips his arm and it takes everything in him not to groan at the contact.

"What are you up to?" the man asks, through gritted teeth.

"I'm not up to anything, sir. I've just been receiving notes all year from a mysterious source and I think it's time I told Professor Dumbledore about them."

"What sort of notes?" Snape asks, letting his arm go and taking a step back.

"Um, well, see I thought they were a joke at first. They're, the writer of them-er-wants me in… a sexual way." Snape stares at him and he looks down pulling the note out again. "I was going to throw them away, but they kept coming and I wanted to know what they all said when put together." Snape remains silent and Harry taps the folded papers against his hand. "I suppose I should have informed the headmaster someone was stalking me in that manner sooner, but I wanted to try to figure out whom they were from first."

"And have you?"

"I'm pretty sure I have, but it doesn't matter. They've stopped now."

"Then it is a bit late to inform the headmaster of them, don't you think?"

"Probably, but I still think I should tell him." Harry lifts his head and looks at the older man again. "I'll tell Professor Dumbledore I was down here without permission when I get to his office."

"No, I will inform the headmaster when I take the letter to him," Snape says, and holds his hand out.

"I really think I should tell him, Professor. I am the one who received it."

"I will handle it, Potter. Now give me the letter and leave." He hands the letter over and Snape tucks it away without reading it. "I will not tell you again."

"Yes, sir." Harry heads for the door and starts to open it when he reaches it, then stops and looks at his potions professor again. "Oh, and professor?"

"My patience is running thin," Snape warns.

"And after nine months mine is at an end," Harry retorts, warding the door.

"What do you-"

"I know you wrote the letter," Harry interrupts, angry that the man is still holding up his pretense. "There's a spell for damned near anything if you look hard enough for it, including at least one to reveal the author of any piece of parchment so long as it's an original copy." Snape turns away from him and it only enrages him more. "Yes, I looked. Found the best one, surprisingly enough, in transcripts of Death Eaters trials."

"I thought you were not entirely sure who wrote the letter," Snape says, and walks over to the vacated chair and takes a seat rubbing his hands over his face.

"I said I found the spell, not that I used it." Snape drops his hands and stares at him. A low chuckle follows.

"Congratulations, Potter."

"For?"

"For finally having exactly what you need to avenge my treatment of you and complete your father's work of making my life miserable. I will not only be sacked once you turn the letter over to the headmaster, but I will most likely receive a rather warm welcome in Azkaban for sexually harassing The-Boy-Who-Lived-To-Kill-You-Know-Who. You've won, Potter."

"You have the letter." Snape stares at him, and then pulls the folded parchment from his pocket. He looks at it, then back at Harry again. "Yes, it's the original and no, there's no copy of it."

"Then you were a fool to give it to me," Snape snorts.

"Less a fool than you for sending it. Why?"

"I thought I was quite clear on my intent," Snape replies. Harry stepped over to him looking up at the ceiling. He stopped directly in front of the man and looks down at him.

"And I'm supposed to believe that after at least nine months of such intent that it's gone with a simple goodbye? Give me more credit than that."

When the chair topples backwards with Snape still in it, the man gasps. He's sure Snape is waiting for the pain of the impact of hitting the stone floor. His quick Cushioning Charm on his invisibility cloak is more than likely the only thing that stops the older man from breaking his back. A well-aimed kick and the seat of the chair flies across the room out of the way, the back of the chair still under Snape. The potions master stares up at him in anger, but he's too far gone to care. The frustration of months of taunts and teasing only to be told it's over before he's even had his turn has boiled over to pure lust. He's not thinking anymore, he's acting, taking what he's craving. Snape has no one to blame but himself for it in his opinion.

The older man start to sit up, but doesn't get far. Not when he takes a seat on his not-so-secret-anymore admirer's groin. Sitting there with his knees sufficiently preventing the older man from moving his arms, he taps his wand against his thigh.

"You reek of dominance and power, Potter," Snape groans, closing his eyes.

"Do I? Was that one of your little points of interest in me as well?" he asks, then drags his wand down the center of the man's chest. The buttons of the older man's robe and shirt slide through their holes and the shirt spreads open wide. The stretch of pale skin over hard muscle, slightly marred with scars here and there, is too tempting for him not to lean down and take a slow lick.

"Yes," Snape replies, through clenched teeth.

He feels his professor's hands fisting, too, and grins taking another lick. His tongue catches on a hard nub and he lingers there a moment, letting his teeth scrape across it. Snape hisses something under his breath, but he's not listening. The man tastes like cloves and sandalwood soap and it's so very difficult to remember exactly who this man is to him, what the man has been to him the last seven years of his life. Snape is something else to him at the moment, though, and that's what he focuses on.

Because he has nine months of retribution to dish out and paybacks are a bitch.

He's only vaguely aware of shifting, fitting his groin against the other man's. A muttered charm and his hands keep the other man's where they are without the aid of his knees. He is, however, so very aware of taking the other man's mouth in a fierce kiss, aware of the strange but not entirely unpleasant taste of ginger and black tea. Aware that the other man is kissing him back just as aggressively.

He slides a hand across the potion master's belly from side to center and stops there. The muscles under his fingers tense with anticipation of what will happen next. He's not in a very accommodating mood, though, not with the last word of the letter still lingering in the back of his mind. He leaves his hand there and rolls his hips just once. The kiss ends, but not without a good bite of the man's lower lip through his moan. And when Snape tilts his head back with the moan, well, he exploits the weakness because that's what the man taught him to do.

There's one more thing he slowly becomes aware of. Snape isn't fighting him for control of the moment. The man isn't protesting his arms being held down by spells, isn't telling him what to do. For once, Snape isn't chastising him at all. It was in the letter, he remembers that, but he never thought about it once he had a good idea as to whom the author was. Snape put in writing that he'd submit to him and that's just what the man is doing. Completely. Fucking. Submitting.

His hand moves then because his brain stops functioning. Its all want need take. Now. By the time his mouth makes its way down Snape's torso and meets with his hand exposing what his want and need are centered on, the older man's chest is heaving with panted breath. The man stops breathing altogether when he pulls Snape in with lips and tongue and swallows.

The skin on Snape's belly is hot where he holds the man's hips down and he almost wonders if he really is scorching him. He'd have to honestly care for there to be true thinking rattling around in his brain, though, and that's just not happening. The man's cock isn't overly huge, but it's a delicious mouthful. He's in no hurry to end his sampling of it. Fast, hard sucks give way to slower, more thorough enjoyment then switches back and forth again and again until the man bucks his hips up in defiance of hands holding them down. He takes Snape in deeply and swallows when the man coats the back of his throat.

He releases the charms holding the man down. He doesn't need them anymore. He knows he never really did, but it's different now. Snape was only submissive before, but now Snape is sated and relaxed and pliable along with compliant. That's just fine with him. What isn't fine is that he's still painfully hard and twice as eager to take what Snape has so eagerly offered.

He pulls the man's trouser and boots off easily and fairly quickly. His take a bit more time, but his hands are steady in their mission. His eyes are on the man's face as Snape's body and brain recover. He can still taste the man in his throat when he swallows air. He picks up his wand again when Snape's eyes focus on him, not that he's worried the protests will begin, but because there is spell in particular he's quite adept at. Snape finds out just which charm that is when his fingers glide effortless over their target.

"Tell me."

He's not sure where the words come from, but they're true. He wants the man to say it and he's not going to give either of them what they want until Snape does. After everything they've been through, everything _he's_ been through, he wants to hear it. Snape grips the hem of his t-shirt to pull it off and he stops the teasing of his fingers. The man lets go of his shirt immediately. There's a look of resentment in Snape's eyes, a glare he's too accustomed to for it to have any effect on him anymore. His stare, one that conveys his message without words, apparently does work on the man. It's whispered, the words so quiet he barely hears them, but he does.

"I want you."

Snape calls him by his given name when he thrust his fingers inside. He's not gentle. The words spoken aloud instead of scribed on paper are too much for him. In and out, he twists and scissors with each stroke, his free hand on the man's stomach forcing him still. The scent of sex is already heavy in the room. It'll seep into the corridor by the time he's finished.

His shirt rips in the man's fisted grip, the older man trying to pull himself sitting. A hard push on the man's chest and Snape falls back onto the remnants of the chair. It's anyone's guess whether the fall is to blame for Snape's hiss or his cock replacing his fingers up the man's arse. It doesn't matter when he falls forward himself and tries to suck the sarcasm from the other man's tongue, hips pushing forward until he's balls deep. From then on he has no brain. His body is on autopilot: licking, kissing, touching, tasting, sucking, and biting. Fucking. He moves harder and deeper and faster and slower, and he's moaning and panting and proving Snape was very, very wrong in the process. He thinks Snape got the message when Snape spills between them. He makes sure the man doesn't forget before he comes, too.

"How long have you suspected it was me?" Snape asks, the words barely decipherable amongst the man's panting.

"Since the sixth one," he replies, and kneels between the man's legs wiping the sweat from his forehead into his hair. When he looks down, Snape is staring at him. "Who else would insult me and compliment me all at once?" he shrugs, and then uses Snape's knees to stand.

"There was no insult in the letter," the man replies firmly, remembering quite well exactly what he wrote.

"You said there was no way I could still have any innocence when I'm so passionate about things. Is that not saying any innocence seen in me is an act on my part?" He summons his wand from the floor and cleans himself, then Snape as an afterthought.

"It is an act, Potter," the man smirks, leaning back on his forearms.

"I didn't say you wrong, I said it was an insult and compliment all in one," Harry chuckles, and pulls his smalls and trousers back on. His shirt is ruined, but it doesn't matter. He has his cloak and robe to use until he gets upstairs. "Everyone sees what they want to see in me. If I spent my time correcting misconceptions I'd waste years on them. I have better things to do."

"Such as?" Snape asks.

"Such as proving you wrong. I think I just did so rather convincingly." He points his wand at the man and Snape raises an eyebrow at him. A grin and the potions master is levitated enough for him to pull his invisibility cloak out from underneath him. He chuckles at Snape's choice words at the man's bare arse hitting the cold stone floor. Robe and cloak on before Snape even has his trouser fastened; he turns and heads for the door.

"Potter." He turns and looks at the older man. "Your detention will be served in my office from eight until ten nightly."

"Fuck your detention," he retorts, his expression even. He pulls out the letter and tosses it on the floor at Snape's feet. Snape glares at him and he stares back. "I'll learn to stay away from where I'm not supposed to be as soon as you learn how to sign your name."

He closes the door behind him and heads back upstairs grinning. He's not sure what Snape will think of his reply to the letter, but at least now he's sure of which box to file it in.

* * *

Inside the chamber, Snape picks up the letter and opens it in its full form for the first time since he started sending it. He smirks at what he finds.

_Harry,_

_What would you say if I told you that I want you? __No, that was not a joke. I want you._ I want you. You, not The-Boy-Who-Lived. Give me more credit than that. I suppose that's difficult since you don't know who I am. You will. 

_Have I peeked your interest? You have most assuredly peeked mine. I think of you often. Tell me, how do you mask such a skilled mind behind a smile still so innocent in appearance? I know you are not innocent, Harry. No one so passionate in both their love and hate of things ever is. I wonder if anyone has ever fully unleashed the fire in you, allowed you to consume him or her entirely. I would willingly submit to that burn. I want you, Harry. The want is boiling inside me. _

_To feel your skin on mine… _

_To kiss you…_

_To taste you…_

_To be the one you release inside…_

_Do thoughts of me make you moan and mess yourself alone in bed at night? Thoughts of you do so to me… with a bit of self-assistance, of course. I see the want of me now. Is it the same constant ache you stir in me? Does it make you hard? I can cure you of your new burden, Harry. You need only admit I am right, that you want me as much as I want you. _

_No, you would never sacrifice your pride for another, would you? Sacrifice yourself, yes, but never your pride. And that is the reason I have not revealed myself to you. I have come to realize that I will never have you. That being the case, I cannot allow you to know who I am. Forgive my earlier lie of assuring you I would, but I cannot. Do not be angry, Harry. It is better this way. You want me now, but would you still if you knew my name? No, you would not. It is better this end now, so I am ending it. Goodbye__._

Did you really think that 'Goodbye' was going to work? Did you honestly believe you could owl me a mystery without me trying to solve it? If you did then you've paid as close attention to my character as I appear to pay to you in your potions lessons. Given what we both sacrificed tonight I don't think that's the case. That being said I'll leave this in your hands to finish properly. That includes the envelope.

Harry

~Fin~

* * *

Thank you for reading. Please review.

Nyx =)


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